


Three's a Tangle

by elfin (crazylittleelf), rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: Bodyswap, F/M, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-13
Updated: 2011-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazylittleelf/pseuds/elfin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exploring an unexpected consequence of the machine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three's a Tangle

It’s the little things, weight distribution, centre of gravity, how his service weapon drags on his forearms that trip Lincoln up; the larger things - the breasts, the blonde hair, the amount of free room he has in his panties – Lincoln doesn’t consider, or at least not until he’s in the privacy of his own room. The number of showers Lincoln takes in a day has increased exponentially, washing himself a holistic ritual, Lincoln likes Olivia’s body, the capability and casual athleticism. It’s not a breach of trust so much as an opportunity for the future, if things between Lincoln and his own Olivia ever develop... well, he has the keys to the kingdom, fingers charting the treasure map. Lincoln finds ways to bring himself to orgasm, multiple orgasms, fingers and toys, vibration or stroke, cataloguing pleasure, knowing where to apply it, lying sweaty and exhausted in his own sheets. Lincoln’s always been big on doing his own homework.

He sips from his beer, the bottleneck dangling from his fingertips and grins at Olivia. “Come on, you must have checked out the merchandise by yourself, taken the new car for a test-drive? Ogled yourself in the mirror... I’m totally oggable.”

“No,” Olivia answers, her knee braced against the tabletop, hair sticking up like a bedraggled crow. “Didn’t occur to me once.” She’s nursing a scotch, her hand enveloping the tumbler entirely. Lincoln can hear the ice clacking against the edges of the glass; he wonders how much Olivia remembers from over there, if the easy slide into camaraderie is the leftover crumbs of mental coercion or if Olivia actually likes him.

Peter stares at the ceiling, slumped in his seat. “After the second hijacking it all becomes a little pedestrian,” he says morosely.

Lincoln remembers Peter throwing his hands up in the air and muttering ‘oh, for Christ’s sake’ before hollering for Walter. Lincoln also remembers heaving his guts out in the bridge-room floor, braced on hands and knees as nausea swept over him in palpable waves. Olivia kept it together, sitting on the bottom step of the machine with her head in her hands. Lincoln raises his glass. “Here’s to boots instead of high-heels,” he announces and all three knock their drinks back in tandem; they’re drunk, not moving for the foreseeable future, and the list of toasts they’ve made has traversed from clothing articles to Walter’s newest theory on reversing the affects.

Lincoln started pushing for a response from Olivia twenty minutes ago – it’s not guilt, whatever happens in the privacy of a person’s room is their own business, and Olivia will never find out – it’s more of a literal case of tit-for-tat, that Lincoln wasn’t alone in the minor crime of bodily exploration. She must have been a bit curious. Olivia stretches, standing upright and walks behind Peter’s chair. Lincoln can’t read his own face, can’t read beneath the surface of Olivia’s thoughts. “I didn’t need to do any exploring on my own,” Olivia explains.

She tilts Peter’s chin up, blunt fingers rasping over his stubble, the kiss open-mouthed, upside down. Lincoln can see her tongue push inside, the slow expansion of heat between them, her other hand flat on Peter’s abdomen, fingers angled down. “That’s my body,” Lincoln says, a little numbly.

“Mmm,” Peter agrees. They break apart, faces close, his finger tracing along Olivia’s bottom lip, pulling it down a fraction, "That's my girl."

Olivia’s eyes have darkened. If that’s what Lincoln looks like when he’s aroused, then he has the awkward feeling Liv’s known about his crush from the word go. The desire’s written all over Olivia’s (Lee’s) face, it’s in her posture, half curled over Peter’s form, tongue twining over his thumb and sucking it in. On the up and upper it’s totally unfair because they look comfortable together - masculine bodies, flat chests, hard planes where there ought to be opposing softness - at ease with their mirrored parts. They look hot.

Lincoln is starting to question his sexuality if not his compos mentis because all of Olivia’s actions are driving him a bit gay. He can feel the heat in his own cheeks, the body he inhabits reacting to the physical display. Liquid pools inside his stomach, a flush as his fascia twitches, tightens; Lincoln’s turned on, or Olivia’s body is turned on, and four days of enthusiastic experimenting hasn’t prepared him for the edge of want, for the lust that drives him to the very tip of his seat, trying to cross the distance like filaments of metal toward a magnet. Olivia looks directly at Lincoln, one hand on Peter’s abdomen, the other splayed across his neck, thumb sweeping the carotid artery and says smoothly. “Are you coming?”

Lincoln thought he misheard except Peter tenses, a quicksilver flash as muscles contract and release, almost too fleeting to be seen. Peter’s expression doesn’t falter, the back of his head resting against Olivia’s mid-rift; but his eyes lower to account for Lincoln’s response. “Yes,” Lincoln says immediately, not allowing time for anyone to reconsider, “of course... I need to make sure you don’t damage my body.”

“Of course,” Olivia repeats in Lee’s suggestive tones.

Lincoln wishes he could gauge Peter, read the template of his emotions. Theoretically, Lincoln knows Peter disappeared for six months, the train-track of time turning an unexpected loop before continuing on its merry way. Lincoln knows inside this loop things were different - a world where Peter never existed, which (sheltered by the Observers), Peter actually saw – before time righted itself. Lincoln’s uncertain what that does to a person’s sense of belonging, or even to their self-worth, but Lincoln smells blood, the type of wound easily infected. Olivia’s suggestion could go either way. He can’t read Peter at all and so Lincoln asks, “You don’t mind?”

For the first time since the swap occurred Peter really looks at him, eyes trailing down Olivia’s body, lingering here; detouring there. It’s proprietary, distant, like a bookmark left behind in a novel to be picked up and read at a later date, it’s hot and cold fingers brushing Lincoln’s skin, making his teeth grind, because Lincoln should have known better than to give Peter Bishop an optional out. He may never get the opportunity again. Olivia kisses Peter on the side of the cheek, the action unexpectedly gentle, her hand moves from his stomach to interlace their fingers together. Olivia urges him upward from the seat, “Lee,” she says simply and tows Peter toward the bedroom.

Lincoln’s opportunistic, he doesn’t need to be told twice, whatever weird undercurrent is playing out between Olivia and Peter, Lee’s happy to ignore it. He’s not privy to the history and he’s wise enough to know his future doesn’t reside upon their pit-fall path. There’s only here, now, an offer made in earnest and a body that knows what it wants, occupied by a mind more curious than biased.

Whatever fallout Olivia’s inviting, it won’t be Lincoln’s mess to clean up.

Lincoln’s barely inside the room when he pushes Peter against the wall, tongue in his mouth, hand fisted in his hair. Trying to rub against denim doesn’t work unless there’s a cock involved, but there’s pressure against Lincoln’s clit, the liquid heat between his legs turning slippery. Peter seems startled but kisses back, his movements agile, well versed; a hand on the small of Lincoln’s back guides him close, until Lincoln’s breasts are flattened against his torso. Peter nips the juncture between neck and shoulder, eyes diamond bright, marking the pale slope of exposed collarbone.

The sting makes Lincoln hiss, to retaliate with warning pressure - knee against scrotum until it skirts discomfit - until Peter breaks the kiss and groans, breath hot against Lincoln’s ear. He’s searching for Olivia, Lincoln knows, gaze fixed over Lee’s shoulder - he’s like Walter, the father’s not relaxed unless his son’s close, nor is Peter centered unless Olivia stands in his orbit - he’s searching her out, and Lincoln doesn’t know if it’s anger or resentment that guides Peter’s actions, the memory of Liv or the thought of William Bell, the silent parade of deception versus stolen psyches, he doesn’t want Lee in this room occupying her body, but Lincoln wasn’t given the option and he’s not leaving unless directed. He rocks against the other man, nipples drawn tight, goose-bumps running the length of his forearm and kisses Peter again, softer, looser, until Lincoln feels Olivia’s mouth come to rest against his nape. “You look beautiful together,” she demurs quietly, the words intimate. “I never knew what we looked like.”

Peter shudders once, a reversal of words that somehow resonates, the tension leaves his body; his jaw relaxes into the next kiss, thumb tucking a strand of loose hair behind Lincoln’s ear.

From behind, Olivia presses against him, her body a long acre of naked skin.

Caught between the two of them, Lincoln feels like kindling in a forest fire, the potential for fiery destruction imminent. Olivia finds his breasts under the shirt, thumb and forefinger clamping tight with torque, the satin of his bra twisting against pebbled nipples. Lincoln arches his spine, snaps his hips forward, and hears Olivia whisper, “He’s in love with Liv.” Dammit, Lincoln thinks, because she knows, which means Liv definitely knows, and Olivia said love not crush, which means she’s more knowledgeable than Charlie... And his thoughts stutter to a stop because Peter has his hand down Lincoln’s pants, forefinger slipping through the mess and curling inside without so much as a by-your-leave, his thumb, seemingly shy, hangs back to rub against Lincoln’s clit. The pressure’s so sudden, exact, Lincoln feels his knees buckle, a slouch caught by Olivia’s frame, her smile curving against his skin. “Why don’t you show Lincoln how it’s done?”

“Nnnh,” Lincoln says.

Olivia hooks her hand around Peter’s neck, pulls him close until his forehead rests against Lee’s, until her words can seep into the empty spaces, soothe hidden abrasions. She’s deliberately crude, the way Lincoln imagines Liv would be, no room for misunderstanding as she promises. “Then I want to make love to you, Peter, I want to fuck you until all you feel is me.”

The shudder that runs through Peter crosses to Lincoln in the clench of his fingers where they curl inside of him. Olivia chuckles against the back of his head, a low, dirty sound that makes Lincoln whimper, because holy shit, is that what he sounds like? She brushes his hair aside to lay wet kisses along the back of his neck. Lincoln rocks his hips forward, pushing against Peter's fingers, angling for more pressure, but Peter's recovered enough to ease his touch back to teasing. Olivia's fingers skim over Lincoln's hips, pulling him backward and rubbing her half-hard cock against his ass. She bites the same spot on his neck where Peter's teeth had marked him earlier, then steps away and pulls Lincoln with her.

Peter watches him, hungry, like now that it's okay to look he's making up for the last few days of avoiding Lincoln. Lincoln's legs hit the bed and Olivia's body is just that much shorter than he is that the angle trips him up and he falls backwards with a curse. Peter smirks at him as he stops to strip off his clothing and suddenly Lincoln's feeling very overdressed at this party, fumbles with the buttons of his shirt until Olivia takes pity on him.

When he's naked, Olivia stretches out next to him, head propped up on one arm. She trails a finger down his side and he squirms away from the ticklish touch.

"Ug. Stop that."

She smiles and rests her hand on his hip. "Just checking."

Peter crouches over him, a knee on either side of Lincoln's legs. His hands slide over Lincoln's body with a firm touch, a surety that makes Lincoln's eyes flutter shut. Peter shifts, parting Lincoln's legs and settling between them, petting his fingers over the curls. When his fingers slip lower, Lincoln spreads his legs wider, giving Peter room to maneuver. His touch on on Lincoln's slippery folds is light, tracing the curves without slipping between them, one finger just resting against his clit. Lincoln bites back a complaint and rocks his hips.

Peter's watching him, back to that unreadable expression that could just as easily be turned towards a box of doughnuts as a girlfriend's body inhabited by someone else's mind. Lincoln wonders if the hesitation is distaste or just Peter calculating the situation, running through his options. The finger on Lincoln's clit presses down, pushing the soft little hood of flesh back with each roll of Lincoln's hips, little sparks of pleasure that drive Lincoln to reach for Peter's hands, his hips, just anything he can reach. Patience was never one of his strong suits.

Peter lowers his face, rubs his prickly chin into Lincoln's soft belly before kissing his way down. The heat of Peter's mouth makes Lincoln buck his hips, push up and up until he's stopped by Olivia's hand pressing him back down to the bed. Peter's grinning now, mouth open, teeth pressed to slick skin and that hard edge makes Lincoln shiver. He looks over at Olivia and she's looking at Peter, lips parted and hungry. Lincoln wonders what it says about his ego that he wants to lean over and lick his way into her mouth. Like she can sense his gaze, his train of thought, she flicks her eyes to his, licks her lips in a slow, teasing motion.

"Shit," Lincoln breathes.

She smiles, deceptively sweet. "Is he wet, Peter?"

Peter hums an affirmative, runs his tongue the length of Lincoln's labia, just pressing between on the upward stroke, seeking the little knot of nerves at the apex. Peter growls and repeats the motion with more intensity this time, tongue delving deep, murmuring against Lincoln's skin, "Love the way you taste."

Lincoln's not really sure who he's addressing, if it even matters because Peter's sucking at him, moving his mouth and tongue against Lincoln's slick-hot skin and fuck, Lincoln can smell his arousal, the sweet, musky scent of his borrowed skin. One of Peter's hands splays over Lincoln's mound, thumb on his clit and the rest of his fingers stretched out to brush Olivia's. She strokes her hand over Peter's, moving his thumb out of the way so she can rub at Lincoln's clit, her touch perfectly weighted, expert in its movements. Peter licks her fingers.

Her voice has dropped to an octave that rumbles along Lincoln's nerves when she says, "Fuck him with your hand." She's not even finished with the sentence when Peter's fingers are stretching him open, pushing inside.

Lincoln had been thorough in his exploration, figuring that if things went badly he'd at least have a nice catalogue of memories if the real deal never panned out. He'd gone through the range of vocalizations, from soft little moans to sharp cries, theatrical and enthusiastic. The broken, hitching sounds he's making now come helpless and involuntary, rising in pitch and volume.

Peter pulls back and nips the inside of Lincoln's thigh.

"He's louder than you are."

Olivia rubs a hard circle over Lincoln's clit, then taps her finger against him, right on the exposed little tip, which, okay, wow, he hadn't thought of doing that. He makes a little squeaky sound and she does it again, harder. Peter's fingers are curling inside of him, curving up towards Olivia's like he's reaching for her through Lincoln, and caught between them, Lincoln shatters.


End file.
